


Paris, Je T’Aime

by squilf



Series: Talking Wounded [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Lots of Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2019-07-25 15:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: When Arthur and Eames first fall in love – and it’s the first time, because they fall in love so many times afterwards, more than they ever fall out of it – they have three glorious weeks in Paris.Can be read as a one-shot, or as a sequel toKiss Me, Kill Me.French and Russian translations available (see notes).





	Paris, Je T’Aime

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this way back in 2011 on [Fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7553278/1/Paris_Je_TAime?) and [Livejournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/8655.html), as a fluffy little sequel to [Kiss Me, Kill Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16199585/chapters/37859480).
> 
> Translated into French [[AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333581)/[fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11454863/1/Paris-Je-T-Aime)] by [HBOWarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HBOWarrior/pseuds/HBOWarrior).
> 
> Translated into [Russian](http://www.diary.ru/~dream-a-little-bigger/p170930086.htm) by [arisuaiko](https://arisuaiko.livejournal.com/).

When Arthur and Eames first fall in love – and it’s the first time, because they fall in love so many times afterwards, more than they ever fall out of it – they have three glorious weeks in Paris. And really, it is glorious. They’re young and unspoilt, unscathed by the world around them. Softer versions of themselves, of the hardened men they will become. Love is so easy when you’re young – you think that it’s beautiful, that it’ll last forever. And for three weeks, three _glorious_ weeks in Paris, that devastating, foolish new love is what Arthur and Eames have. They stay in a cheap hotel room with peeling wallpaper and a brass bed and a lamp with a flickering light bulb and a shower that’s too cold and creaky floorboards. And it feels, for a short time at least, like home, because it’s a little space of their own, it’s neutral ground, and once you’ve had sex that many times in a room you really begin to feel like you own the place.

 

Cobb – well-meaning Cobb, who loves Arthur like a brother, but has dreadful timing and debatable facial hair – calls on the first week. The phone starts ringing when they’re in the shower and Arthur rolls his eyes and says, “You answer it.”

“Can’t it wait?” Eames pleads.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve been in the shower for twenty minutes and neither of us is any cleaner.”

Eames grins.

“All the more reason to stay,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Go,” Arthur says, shoving him out of the shower.

Eames sighs and dutifully leaves the bathroom, dripping wet, to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Arthur?” the voice is tinny and electronic, but Eames can tell who it is.

“Cobb?” he asks.

“Eames?”

Cobb sounds less than pleased to hear him. In fact, he sounds downright manic. It’s not exactly surprising. The three of them have been on a job in Amsterdam for the last three months, and Cobb’s spent the whole of that time thinking that Eames, that roguish bastard, has been deflowering Arthur, that young innocent. Well, they have been caught in some uncompromising positions, shall we say, but there was no deflowering in _Amsterdam_. Eames’ powers of seduction evidently aren’t as potent as Cobb thinks they are, and besides, he and Arthur hadn’t exactly got on well when they first met. (Well, Arthur shot him. Several times.) Now, things couldn’t be more different. They get on (and get off), there’s deflowering a-plenty, and if Arthur ever was a young innocent, he sure as hell isn’t one now. What changed things? Eames realised that he’s been in love with Arthur ever since he met him. Because, he really is. But, of course, Cobb doesn’t know about that. Not yet, anyway. The last he’s heard, Eames was going to walk out of Arthur’s life after the job, and that would be that. It’s a conclusion Cobb’s satisfied with. But now – now he’s going to be furious. Eames grins. Oh, this is going to be _good_.

“Hello, Cobb,” he says cheerily, as he sits on the rickety wooden chair by the window so he can enjoy the view whilst annoying Cobb, “Sorry, Arthur’s busy at the moment.”

“Eames?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“ _Eames_?”

“Yes, Cobb, I think we’ve established that.”

Eames can just _feel_ Cobb’s disbelief, despite the fact that the Atlantic Ocean is in between them.

“You’re with Arthur? What are you doing with Arthur? Where are you? I thought you’d, well, you know… Eames, if you are messing him around, I swear to God I will _cut you_.”

Eames can barely suppress his laughter.

“Relax,” he says, “Yes, I am with Arthur. We’re in Paris.”

“What are you doing in _Paris_?”

Eames shrugs.

“It’s a nice place.”

“You’re not – I mean you’re – hang on, you and Arthur are just hanging around together in Paris?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“What are you doing with him?” Cobb says angrily.

“Do you want details? I could email you a few diagrams. Or just list it off to you now.”

“No, I don’t want – I – _fuck you_.”

“Well, exactly. Though not always that way round.”

Cobb makes a gagging noise.

“Stop! Just don’t – oh God, as if you two haven’t damaged me _enough_ already, I do not want to think about my friend in that way.”

Eames is probably enjoying this too much. It would have been far better for Cobb’s sanity if Arthur had been the one to answer the phone, but life’s a bitch, and Eames is only too happy to oblige her.

“But I thought you’d, you know, split up? Because you fucked up?” Cobb asks, too surprised to be tactful.

“Yeah, we kind of did,” Eames says unhelpfully, “But then we didn’t.”

“Are you screwing him over?”

“No, just screwing him.”

“I _mean it_ , Eames. If you hurt him, I will _castrate_ you.”

Eames shudders. In his opinion, there could be no crime so heinous as to warrant that punishment.

“I won’t hurt him.”

“You did it before,” Cobb says darkly.

“I know. I won’t do it again.”

Cobb hums, a dull noise of doubt and distrust, and _why_ can’t he believe Eames, he has no right reason to pass judgement on him or Arthur, he’s completely prejudiced and it’s _not Eames’ fault_ , well, it’s _mostly_ sort of not his fault, there were several contributing factors.

“I won’t leave him,” Eames bursts out, standing up in sudden passion, “I’m staying with him, for as long as he’ll have me, _fuck_ , I love him, I fucking love him, OK?”

“Eames?” Arthur suddenly appears in the doorway, dressed, his hair wet, looking like someone’s just punched him in the stomach, which no-one would unless they enjoyed excruciating pain or righteously angry Americans. (Eames doesn’t know which of those is worse.) He realises Arthur must’ve heard his passionate but slightly crap declaration of love, and feels somewhat awkward for it.

“Arthur, I –” he begins.

“Clothes,” Arthur says sternly.

“Huh?”

“Get some fucking clothes on!”

Eames looks at him intently but fails to do anything.

“You’re standing right by the fucking window!” Arthur says, horrified.

“I was enjoying the view.”

“And so is _everyone in the street!_ ”

Arthur shoves Eames vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe and shuts the curtains. Eames thinks he can hear Cobb make a retching sound on the other end of the phone.

“It’s Cobb,” Eames says, as Arthur grabs the phone from him.

“ _Clothes_ ,” Arthur repeats, narrowing his eyes at Eames.

Eames dutifully darts off to get dressed, even though Arthur does love seeing him wander around the place naked and doesn’t he know it.

“Cobb, sorry,” Arthur says, holding the phone to his ear.

“No, it’s – fine?” the hesitation in Cobb’s voice is apparent.

“I’m afraid I had the misfortune to get involved with an idiot.”

“You love me really,” Eames says from the other side of the room, hopping on one foot to put a sock on and looking, unsurprisingly, like an utter fool.

“Unfortunately,” Arthur says flatly.

Eames grins, and nearly falls over.

“Arthur, what’s going on?” Cobb asks, “I called to see you were OK, and then Eames answered, and he said you’re in Paris? I mean, _what_?”

“Yes, well, we are. In Paris. Yes.”

“Tell him my intentions are honourable,” whispers Eames, who’s now wandering around topless which is a good compromise and allows Arthur to eye him up but is probably not appropriate considering it’s winter.

Arthur rolls his eyes at him.

“He’s not going to believe you,” he says, covering the mouthpiece, “He thinks we’ve been fucking for the last three months.”

“Oh, I _wish_ ,” says Eames, hands skimming Arthur’s hips.

It crosses Arthur’s mind that he should really make him stop, because with Eames one thing invariably leads to another, and that another is invariably sex. Not that he’s complaining.

“You took him back?” Cobb says, his voice disapproving.

“Cobb, I appreciate your concern, really, but I’m twenty-three years old. I can make my own decisions. And my own mistakes.”

“Which one of those is falling in with Eames?” says Cobb sternly, and he sounds far too like Arthur’s mother for his liking, “A decision or a mistake?”

“Neither,” says Arthur, “I just fell in love, is all.”

And Eames wants to kiss him breathless.

He does, of course. Later.

 

There are days when they go out and wander around, because they’re in Paris and they ought to at least _attempt_ to be cultured. And there are days when they stay in and lie about, because they’re in love and culture can hang itself, quite frankly.

Sometimes they go out.

They go to the Eiffel Tower. It’s night, and Eames insists on Arthur’s wearing a scarf because it’s fucking freezing up there (and nothing to do with the fact he looks adorable in anything knitted). They look down at the city and it’s like a carpet of lights stretched out before them, and Eames thinks about how pretty it is, and Arthur thinks about grid references and mapping. Eames puts an arm around him and for a moment, it’s almost quite romantic.

Then Eames says, “You do realise that this is basically a giant metal phallus?” which kind of kills the mood.

“Well, thanks for ruining the Eiffel Tower for me forever,” Arthur says flatly.  
But he’s smiling.

They go to Notre Dame. Arthur sketches the gothic stone arches, mumbling something about the distribution of weight until Eames tugs at his elbow and says that a house of God is no place for such sinners as they, so let’s go back to the hotel and blacken our souls some more. Arthur ignores him for as long as he can hold out, which is about three minutes, because then Eames starts kissing his neck and they are in public in a _bloody Cathedral in a Catholic country_ and this is so astoundingly embarrassing but holy shit it’s good and Eames _knows_ it is, damn him.

They go to the Louvre. Arthur’s not that keen on being dragged around several thousand feet of an art gallery because Eames has an appalling sense of direction and wants to see the bloody Mona Lisa for no discernable reason. They find it, eventually.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” says Eames reverently, “It’s like she’s hiding something from you, but you’ll never find out what.”

He doesn’t mention that that’s just how he feels about Arthur. Because Arthur’s beautiful but he’s complicated. And Eames doesn’t understand him, and sometimes he wonders if he ever will, and sometimes he wonders if he ever has to. Because maybe that’s what loving someone is. He wouldn’t really know.

Arthur shrugs dismissively at Da Vinci’s masterpiece.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” he says.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” says Eames.

It takes Arthur a moment to catch on.

“Fuck you, Eames.”

“Again?”

 

Sometimes they stay in.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what they’re up to. In fact, everyone within a hundred-meter radius knows. It’s not like they’re subtle. Eames doesn’t _do_ subtlety, and he seems to be rubbing off on Arthur. So to speak. Arthur screams a lot. Eames is clumsy. So far he’s knocked over the lamp once, the vase twice and the chairs three times. And there’s this one time, for which Arthur will never forgive him, when it’s midday and he accidentally pulls down the curtains.

“Eames!” Arthur yells, trying to cover himself and Eames with the moth-eaten old curtains, with little success, “Everyone in the fucking street can fucking _see_!”

Eames shrugs, somewhat revelling in his nakedness.

“Well, they could only hear us before, so at least now they’ve got the full picture.”

Arthur fixes him with a seething glare.

“I am never, never having sex with you again.”

Eames raises his eyebrows.

“I give you a day before you give in.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself. _Shockingly_ , you are not God’s gift to sex.”

“For that, I’ll give you half a day,” says Eames.

“I’m not that desperate,” Arthur scoffs.

(In the end, he makes it two hours.)

The shower becomes a no-go zone pretty quickly. It’s Eames’ fault. Their wet bodies are pressed against one another, Eames’ broad back beaded with water against Arthur’s chest, and Arthur’s kissing each vertebra of his spine, tongue and teeth, working from the top down, slow and focused.  
Then Eames says, “Darling, could you hurry up a bit?”

(Of course, being English, he can’t just say faster, Arthur, faster.) Arthur freezes, because being asked to _hurry up a bit_ is not a turn on.

“What?” he says.

“That doesn’t mean stop!” Eames moans.

Arthur carries on, because he’s willing to overlook Eames’ inadequacies if it means he gets to fuck him. It’s about a minute before Eames starts up again.

“Really, this is lovely, Arthur, and it’s not that I’m not enjoying it, but could you maybe perhaps get a fucking move on and fuck me?”

Arthur stops.

“Arthur!” Eames groans, “Honestly, darling, it’s not you, it’s just this shower is fucking freezing, so if you’d be so good as to just _put your cock in me_...”

Arthur sighs, dropping his forehead against Eames’ back.

“What?” Eames complains.

“That’s hardly romantic.”

“You’re fucking me from behind in the shower. What part of this is romantic?”

“Er,” says Arthur, “How about you love me? Is that part romantic?”

Eames hesitates.

“Well, yes...”

Arthur huffs.

“You know what,” he says, “Fuck this.”

He shoves Eames away and climbs out of the shower, grabbing his clothes angrily, his back to Eames.

“I won’t bother to make an effort next time, if that’s what you want, fine, that’s what you’ll get, Mr Eames, see if I care, the minute I –”

Arthur stops talking then, because that’s when Eames pushes a finger, knuckle-deep, up his arse. He just stands there, gasping.

“You were saying?” Eames says casually.

“ _Fuck_ – you,” Arthur pants.

“Go on then.”

So, naturally, it ends with Eames on all fours in the bathroom. Arthur shouts abuse at him – not because he has an S&M kink, but because he really is angry, and he doesn’t want to have sex with Eames after he’s been such a prick, except he kind of really does.

“You bastard – _fuck_ , ah – so infuriating – _shit_ – awful dress sense – oh, fuck fuck _fuck_...”

It takes them a few minutes before they collapse on the wet bathroom tiles.

“Not our most magnificent,” Eames comments dryly, rolling onto his back.

Arthur grunts in agreement, incapable of coherent speech at this moment.

“And Arthur, that was the worst dirty talk I have ever heard, seriously.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You said I drink too much tea. And I don’t fold my shirts properly. _During sex_.”

Arthur moans weakly and crawls onto Eames.

“God,” he says, “Just look at the state of us.”

And they laugh. Because really, they are a state.

They’re utterly hopeless, and they have no idea what they’re doing. But it’s _brilliant_. They get lost in the city and yell at each other until Eames takes Arthur’s hand and says something stupid like _j’ai adoree toi_ to make him laugh, and Eames mercilessly murders the French language whenever he attempts to speak it, and Arthur complains about being too cold until Eames buys him a hat and it’s _bright red_ but Arthur likes it, and they practically live off croissants, and they have sex on the bathroom floor because the shower’s cold, and it’s flawed and a bit screwed up but it’s beautiful.

“I love you so fucking much,” Eames says, and it sounds so fierce, it surprises him.

And Arthur looks at him and doesn’t know what to say, so Eames removes the need for him to speak by kissing him, sudden and forceful, and then he pulls back and says, “D’you feel like a croissant?”

Arthur laughs.

“No, really, I’m starving.”

“Shut up.”

“Why, d’you have something better in mind?” Eames says suggestively.

Arthur hums, pressing his face into Eames’ neck.

“I might do.”

“And what might that be?”

Arthur whispers two words into Eames’ ear, “Scrambled eggs.”

 

They lie awake in the half-light one Friday morning, entwined in each other.

“Morning, darling,” Eames mumbles.

Arthur moans a little and murmurs something about Eames fucking himself and hating the light and not wanting to get up. He looks like he’s spent the last three nights having particularly energetic sex. (Which he has, because Eames went easy on him on Monday.) Eames likes Arthur like this, sleepy and sweet. He’s grumpy but too tired to really put up a fuss about anything. Eames decides to take advantage of this – he _is_ an opportunist, after all – and pulls Arthur closer. He struggles rather pathetically for a few moments, whining weakly to be let go, but he gives in pretty quickly and settles himself against Eames, head tucked under his chin.

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” he huffs.

Eames chuckles and strokes his hair, because he’s got Arthur right where he wants him.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Arthur murmurs, and he doesn’t mean to sound as fond as he does.

“Yeah,” says Eames, “I am.”

They’re suspiciously close to cuddling. Arthur’s not too happy about that, which is kind of funny, considering all the other things he’s more than up for doing with Eames. He lets himself be held and stroked and kissed, but it’s under sufferance and never for too long. And afterwards he’s embarrassed and annoyed and pleased about it.

 

One morning when Eames is holding him, Arthur says in a tone that’s trying to be casual and therefore really isn’t because Arthur just _doesn’t_ talk casually, “I suppose you’ve had a lot of guys.”

It’s a loaded question and Eames knows it. If anyone else had asked he’d have said Don’t forget about the girls, but this is Arthur.

“Well,” he says as tactfully as he can manage, “I guess we’ve both had fun. You know what it’s like.”

Arthur blinks.

“No. I don’t.”

His eyes are solemn and sharp as he looks at Eames.

“It’s…” Eames begins, rubbing a thumb against Arthur’s neck, deciding to be honest with him, “It’s nothing special. It’s going to clubs to get drunk and find someone else looking for the same thing. It’s not being able to remember most of what happened in the morning. It means nothing.”

And Eames is aware that right now he sounds like a cheap slut, but he’s never really thought about it before. He had no reason to. That was just his life. He took it for what it was worth and it was fun and he was young and feckless. He’d never seen anything wrong with enjoying himself. But he couldn’t go back to that. Couldn’t go back to waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a girl who definitely looked better after ten units of alcohol, to being broke, to being sick, to the hangovers, to the STIs.

One part of Arthur is saying that Eames is after one thing, that he’ll use him and go, and another part of him is saying that this whole situation is dangerous because it’s going to hurt so much if Eames leaves him, and another part of him is saying that it doesn’t matter for as long as he’s got him. The first part is Arthur’s head, the second’s his heart, the third is his penis. And you should never, _ever_ listen to your genitals, because they are horny little bastards who are almost always wrong.

Eames looks at him and just wants to wrap him up in his arms and tell him that he’ll never leave, whisper it into his ears over and over again so he’ll know it’s true, remind him every day when he wakes up and before he falls asleep. But he knows it’s stupid to make promises Arthur won’t believe and he won’t keep. So he rolls over onto Arthur and looks down at him and says possessively, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then he says it again, smiling, kissing him in between each word.

“I’m – not – going – _anywhere_.”

Arthur laughs.

“Get off.”

Eames shifts slightly, their bodies pressed against each other, and Arthur gasps inaudibly.

“Hmm… No.”

“Get off, Eames.”

“Never.”

Arthur tries to push him off but Eames is too heavy and Arthur wriggles and squirms and they playfight until Arthur manages to roll Eames over and they fall off the edge of the bed, laughing.

“Idiot,” Arthur says, all tangled up in the sheets and Eames.

And then he kisses him, and it feels important, like the answer to a question he can’t remember asking.

 

Some days they stay in and just talk. (Well, they don’t _just_ talk. But they do do a lot of talking. As well as… yes.) Eames talks about previous jobs and Arthur laughs at all the stupid things he’s done and berates him for all the dangerous things he’s done. Arthur can sit at his sketchbook for hours and hours, lost in his paradoxes, trapped in another world. Eames is prepared to free him from this world once he’s got bored of watching someone he doesn’t understand draw things he doesn’t understand, and decides that the best method of dragging him back to reality is going down on him while he’s drawing.

“Eames, what are you doi– oh _shit_ , fuck, oh that’s – don’t move, you’re going to fucking ruin this diagram! Ah, fuck – just let me put the fucking sketchbook away – shit – seriously, you’re going to get ink everywhere – oh _fuck this_ , you ridiculous man, come here and _kiss me_.”

 

It’s in Paris that Arthur realises several things.

  1. He loves Eames so much it fucking _terrifies_ him.
  2. Croissants are God’s gift to France.
  3. He and Eames are staying together. He doesn’t care if it’s difficult or dangerous. He’s staying with him whatever.
  4. The hotel staff definitely deserve a substantial tip, considering how much noise they’ve been making.
  5. Eames loves him.
  6. Eames fucking loves him.



 

But they have to come down at some point. They need to get back to work, get onto the next job, get some money. They’d love to just stay around, lazy and languid, brimming with love, but they can’t. So on their last day in Paris they walk aimlessly through the streets, and Arthur lets Eames hold his hand, and the pigeons clatter away from them, and they silently say goodbye to the city.

“We’ll come back,” Eames says.

Arthur smiles but he’s not sure he believes him, because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them. It scares him, the uncertainty. Eames scares him too, or maybe it’s how Eames makes him feel that scares him.

“Yeah,” Arthur says absently.

Eames looks up at the Eiffel Tower, a hard line in the distance, and then he looks at Arthur and pulls him closer by the collar, smiling.

“What are you so pleased about?” Arthur asks flatly, “We’re leaving.”

“Oh darling,” Eames says, “I might be leaving Paris, but I’m leaving it with you. Don’t you think that’s exciting?”

Arthur bites his lip.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, it kind of is.”

And he kisses Eames and thinks about what comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> I took a lot of inspiration for this fic from the poem [In Paris With You](https://genius.com/James-fenton-in-paris-with-you-annotated).


End file.
